"You must remember, my lad, that that writin' was put down years ago," said John Barrow. "More'n likely if the tree was struck an' blasted, it's fallen long ago, and the spring freshets carried it down the river."
"That's true," said Sam, with a falling look. "But, anyway, we ought to be able to locate the stump."
"Yes, we ought to be able to do that."
"I'm going to locate it now," cried Sam, and stalked off to where the pond emptied into the stream. From this spot he stalked ten paces westward, and of a sudden disappeared from view.
"Help!" he cried.
"Hullo, Sam's disappeared!" cried Dick, and ran toward the spot.
"Look out!" sang out John Barrow. "There may be a nasty hole there!"
Nevertheless, he too went forward, and they soon beheld Sam floundering in snow up to his neck. He had stepped into a hollow between the rocks, and it took him some time to extricate himself from the unpleasant position.
"Oh, my, what a bath!" he exclaimed ruefully, as he tried to get the snow from out of his collar and his coat-sleeves. "I—I didn't think of a pitfall like that!"
"You want to be careful how you journey around here," cautioned John Barrow. "If that hollow had been twice as deep the snow might have smothered you to death."